Vanessa called me a worthless maid for serving Luca a chipped bowl of chicken soup, but the moment he tasted it, he realized his mother had been waiting downstairs for nearly two hours.

Vanessa took an involuntary step backward, nearly spilling her glass of Dom Pérignon onto the Persian rug. Her eyes bugged in disbelief as she took in my silk gown, the diamond earrings, and the confident, unbroken way I walked beside Luca Moretti.

"You..." Vanessa choked out, her voice pitching high enough to carry across the silent room. "What is *she* doing here? Luca, have you completely lost your mind? Bringing your kitchen maid to a High Council conclave?"

A ripple of uneasy laughter erupted from a few low-level capos near the bar, but it was abruptly silenced when Luca turned his icy glare upon them. The room froze.

"Mind your tongue, Vanessa," Luca said, his voice cutting through the silence like a straight razor. "You are speaking to the sovereign owner of the ground beneath your high heels."

Before Vanessa could snap back, the heavy carved doors at the rear of the ballroom swung open.

An elderly man in an immaculate charcoal three-piece suit walked out, leaning heavily on an ebony walking cane tipped with a carved silver serpent. He had slicked-back silver hair, cold grey eyes, and a cruel, thin mouth.

Don Corrado. The head of the High Council.

Behind Corrado walked six armed bodyguards in matching dark suits, their hands resting noticeably beneath their jackets.

"Welcome, Luca," Corrado said, his voice raspy and dry like autumn leaves scraping over concrete. "And welcome... Miss Carbone. Or should I call you Elena?"

I stood tall, refusing to flinch under his predatory gaze. "You will address me by my family name, Don Corrado. As your predecessor did when he knelt before my father."

A collective gasp swept through the delegates in the room. Even Vanessa looked stunned by the venom in my voice.

Corrado’s lips curled into a mirthless smile. He tapped his ebony cane against the marble floor. *Click. Click.*

"Spoken like Lorenzo," Corrado whispered. "He had that same foolish pride. He believed a piece of paper and a bloodline could protect him from the reality of lead and gunpowder."

"My father died because you were a coward who used a runaway truck instead of facing him face-to-face," I said, stepping forward, breaking away from Luca’s side to stand dead center of the room. "And you spent the last ten years searching for a charter you couldn't find, because you didn't have the key."

From beneath my silk clutch, I produced the antique silver pocket watch, holding it up so the entire assembly could see the eight-pointed star gleaming in the chandelier light.

Corrado’s eyes locked onto the watch. For a fraction of a second, raw, desperate greed broke through his icy facade.

"The Carbone heirloom," Corrado breathed. "Give it to me, Elena, and I will grant you your life. I will let you walk out of this city, back into whatever gutter you crawled out of. But the Moretti house falls tonight."

Corrado raised his hand, signaling his bodyguards.

Instantly, Luca’s men across the room drew their weapons. The metallic chorus of dozens of slides racking back simultaneously resonated through the ballroom. Guests screamed and scrambled behind marble pillars and overturned banquet tables.

"Touch her, Corrado," Luca said, stepping between me and the Council Don, drawing his Kimber with terrifying grace, "and this room becomes your mausoleum."

"You think you hold the cards, boy?" Corrado sneered, a triumphant sneer spreading across his wrinkled face. "You think your little perimeter outside is holding? You think the Moretti dynasty is loyal to you?"

Corrado snapped his fingers.